Dragonchance
by Tyanilth
Summary: Girls don't Impress male dragons. Everyone knows that. Until they do, it seems. And a new brown weyrling at Ista is far from the worst thing that Weyr will ever see. Because as time will prove - they ain't seen nothing yet... As always, all copyright of Dragonriders of Pern fanfiction is given to Anne McCaffrey (God rest her) and Todd McCaffrey. I just play with their worlds
1. Chapter 1

H'sonne, Weyrlingmaster of Ista, speaks.

Girls don't ride male dragons. Girls impress to gold or green. Boys impress bronze, brown, blue or green.

We've always known that. Just as we know that the sun rises at daybreak and sets at nightfall. Just as we know that though we live halfway through the Seventh Interval, that Thread will return, and that when it does. dragons will fight it.

We know a lot of things. And then we find out that what we knew is wrong.

When a blue Impressed to a girl at Fort, about ten Turns ago, there were all sorts of theories. Many of them about her gender and whether she was a girl at all. She was, the WeyrHealers aren't quite stupid enough to miss that. Then about what her sexual preferences were (for the love of the First Shell, when did that ever stop the greens? Not every man who rides a green likes other men. Not every girl who rides a green likes other men either, Ista's seen more than one green-green weyrmating with female riders. And don't give me that theory about tent pegs. I have no idea where that one started, I don't want to know. Possibly a very bored Trader on a mountain trail, and Faranth, it must have hurt when he tried it out.)

So in the end it just got accepted. Every now and then, for reasons best known to himself, a blue chooses a female rider. There's about four mentioned in early Records. I heard through gossip there was one at one of the Southern weyrs more recently though given North and South don't have a lot of contact I don't know the details, and I believe there was some disaster there. But it happens, however rarely.

But it's never happened at Ista. We're the smallest of the Northern weyrs, we have a standing population of well under two hundred during an Interval. We have a clutch about every few Turns, not a big one if it's our Senior queen laying, though the Junior usually does a bit better. I get hauled out of my retirement to teach the class because no other idiot wants the job, go back to life as a Hold watchrider once they all graduate. I've been saying for the last few clutches that each one was going to be my last, and next time Yriena my assistant can step up as Weyrlingmaster and do the honours. She'd probably do it better anyway. But every clutch somehow I get talked into dusting off my tattered old rank cords and stepping back into it. Yriena says I'm either senile or a born idiot. I tell her both. My Skalth agrees with her, which is the most depressing thing about it. I point out that fifty Turns ago, he picked me on the Sands, so if I'm a born idiot, he chose that. He tells me that hatchlings rarely have any sense with their choices, and he was no exception. Mouthy bronze.

Sorry, I'm rambling again, aren't I. The weyrlings always say that my lectures take twice as long as they should, and it's anybody's guess whether I'll remember what I was actually supposed to be teaching them or give them a random lecture on something else. Cheeky little sods. As far as I'm concerned, as long as they learn what they need to know to stay alive, I've done my job. And they still aren't quite stupid enough to say it to my face, because Yriena will be down on them like a ton of firestone. She was in a Hold guard somewhere before a Search dragon found her, and she can still reduce a class to a quivering mess in three well phrased sentences, much as she did a bunch of guard recruits, twenty Turns ago. Funny with what we were saying about colours. I remember the clutch she Impressed on, and my marks were on her getting the gold. But the gold egg hatched and made a straight line for Relia, who has the dubious distinction of not being quite the most useless Weyrwoman Ista's had in living memory, because the most useless one was, and still remains, our current Senior Weyrwoman Raynia. Faranth help us all if we can't Impress a gold to someone halfway fit to do the job before the next Pass, though I suppose given we've got over a hundred Turns to go, the law of averages says that we've got to do better sooner or later.

Personally, I'm grateful that Yriena got her green. She's been the best Assistant Weyrlingmaster I've ever had, and she's been with me for three clutches now. Four counting this one. She terrifies the weyrlings, but if any trouble happens, they'll find she's the best friend they've ever had. But if she'd Impressed that gold instead of Relia, we might not be in as much of a mess as we are now. And we were in a mess, long before a brown hatchling last night took one look at a girl apprentice from the Beastcraft and decided for reasons best known to himself, that he wanted her. A dozen strapping lads still on the Sands and he goes and picks a girl. The news will be out all over the Northern Continent by tomorrow morning, and then the mess will really start. And Faranth only knows how it will end. In the mean time, I'm going to break into that half bottle of Boll whisky I've been saving and see if the whole thing looks any better after a couple of drinks. Probably not.


	2. Chapter 2

"Are all of yours asleep?"

The enquiry came from the far corner of the Istan Weyrlingmaster's office where H'sonne, the holder of that title for more Turns than anyone cared to remember was slouched in his chair, a dim glow on the desk beside him reflecting in a half finished glass of whisky. He laboriously pulled himself up to reach for another glass and pour a healthy measure into it before pushing it across the desk towards the woman who had just closed the door that led out to the barracks.

Yriena, rider of green Lyreth, Assistant Weyrlingmaster of Ista, and currently a very tired woman, accepted the glass with a sigh and sank into the other chair by the desk, which was not in itself a comfortable option being hard wood and generally only occupied by whichever Weyrling had fallen foul of the rules that day. "More or less. One of them will no doubt be up in an hour because they can't work out whether they need the jacks or the dragonet needs the midden, and by the time they work it out it'll be too late anyway, but I made sure the shovels were out and the ash buckets are full."

"What did you do with Briela? Or whatever she's shortening it to?"

"Gave them a queen's couch. What else could I do? Half a Turn and that brown will be too big for any of the green couches. And there's no way I'm putting her in the boys' barracks, little sods would have started the first dick-waving contest before morning. I guess we'll just be making this up as we go along, as usual."

H'sonne topped up his own glass with a sigh. "And there I was thinking we'd hit rock bottom just when I saw the clutch numbers this time. Even mid Interval, a clutch of ten from a senior queen is ridiculous. I was hoping against hope that since we'd gone almost eight Turns since Maleinith last rose that she was actually at the end of her laying life ... but no such luck."

Yriena gave up the struggle to find any comfortable position in the hard chair and got to her feet, pacing backwards and forwards before finally choosing to lean against the wall where the dusty files stacked on shelves from floor to ceiling held the history of weyrlings now forty Turns graduated. Possibly even more, the boxes near the bottom had never been moved in living memory. H'sonne kept them as a threat to any weyrling who really overstepped the line - that they would get the task of sorting, copying and refiling them. Weyrlings took one look and decided that good behaviour had its advantages. At least on that day. She sipped from her glass and sighed. "So, what are you going to do with her?"

"Same thing I do with all of them. Train unpromising material to be the best dragonriders I can make of them, and if I can't do that, then at least try to keep the unpromising material alive to graduate, no matter what the odds against me."

"Hary, you're really dismal tonight. I know you always get maudlin drunk on the first night with any class, but you usually manage something vaguely optimistic before you get to this stage."

H'sonne made a pretence of shuffling the hides on the desk into some sort of order before giving it up as a bad job and draining the whisky glass instead. "Well, you try to be cheerful about this. One bronze, three browns, two blues, four greens. Five of them Weyrbred, two Craftbred, three Holdbred. One of the Weyrbred ones is far too young and shouldn't have been standing for this clutch if I'd had a say in it which I didn't. now I've got a thirteen turn boy with a green dragon, and he's not going to have reached his fifteenth Turnday when she rises for the first time and don't give me that whercrap about eleven Turn boys standing in the last Pass, it shouldn't have happend then, and it shouldn't be happening now with a young lad. The Beastcraft CraftMaster isn't speaking to us - again - because both the craft apprentices who Impressed were his, and we've still never heard the end of it when we Searched his younger son for the last clutch, two days before the boy was due to sit his journeyman's exams, the lad accepted Search purely to annoy his father, then he gets a brown. If the Beastcraft could work out how to poison the herdbeasts they tithe to us, they'd probably do it."

Yriena shook her head, "Come on, even you don't mean that."

H'sonne chuckled and heaved himself up from the chair. "No, they probably wouldn't. CraftMaster must dream about it occasionally though."

He ostentatiously picked up the pile of newly trimmed hides and fanned them out over the desk. "The bronze picked a boy who's got the common sense of a trundlebug - oh, he's not stupid, he's just got his head in the clouds more often than not. Both the other browns are all right, sensible lads, but the boys who got the blues are a spiteful pair, they're half brothers and their sire was just the same. The three girls who got greens are all holdbred, and I don't envy you those particular facts-of-life lectures. I can't remember ever before having a group where we didn't have a single Weyrbred girl to educate her peers."

"Well, your new brownrider in the girls barracks might be some help there. Wasn't there some sort of scandal about her?"

He shook his head. "Some rumour that her relations with her mentor in the Craft were...less than appropriate. Not that it's a problem as far as we're concerned. Won't be the first or the last apprentice where that happens, however much those prissy Beastcrafters like to pretend it doesn't. Of all the crafts that you'd think would have a more down to earth approach to human nature...well, that's not our problem. Our problem is ten weyrlings to get through training in one piece. The politics we can safely leave in the hands of our esteemed and highly capable Weyrleaders."

Yriena snorted and took a sip of her whisky. "You know, you almost managed to say that last sentence with a straight face? I'm impressed."

He eyed her with a mock-disapproving glance. "You mean you do not share my confidence? Shame on you, Assistant Weyrlingmaster."

She laughed. "Look, it's the late watch, we are on our own, we are not overheard by any of the resident slimy telltales, we'll be honest here tonight. Our Weyrwoman has been in her second childhood since her fiftieth Turn, she has been unhealthily besotted with her Weyrleader who is young enough to be her son for the last twenty Turns. The Junior Weyrwoman does not have enough brains to argue with either of them, the Weyrseconds are a waste of space, and the only reason we haven't starved is that we have a competent Headwoman who can forge the Weyrwoman's signature well enough on domestic documents to pass inspection, and it's no use anyone asking Raynia whether she signed it or not, she always says yes. Probably doesn't even remember, one way or the other. Did I miss anything?"

He shook his head. "It sounded like a more than accurate summary to me. I've been hoping for Turns that a different bronze would win one of Maleinith's flights, but it's been Pretty Boy J'ler, time after time. Enough to make you wonder how he manages it, because it sure as Thread isn't the quality of his bronze. Skalth could outfly him with one wing scored."

_I could outfly Geralth with both wings scored._

"Cocky bastard."

Yriena laughed and pointed at H'sonne. "Skalth just agreed with you, did he?"

"He did."

"So why haven't you sent him after Maleinith?"

"Honestly, Yri? Because I don't have to. I've seen over seventy Turns, fifty of them as a rider. I'm the Keroon Hold watchrider for most of my time. I'm almost never in the Weyr when any dragon rises, gold or green, and Skalth's been less than interested in chasing for a while now. Which suits me fine. Can you imagine waking up next to our beloved Weyrwoman after a flight?"

Yriena shuddered. "All right, you have a point."

There was a tentative knock on the door and H'sonne bellowed "Enter!"

The figure at the door was one of the two maligned blue weyrlings, but whatever H'sonne's opinion of the boy's personality, his voice was kind when he asked. "Got a problem, lad?"

The boy was clearly trying to be adult and failing badly. "Please sir, it's Iryketh. He was fine when we went to bed, but now he's woken up and he says his tummy really hurts and his tail hurts too." The adolescent voice quavered and it was clear that he wasn't far from tears.

"All right, lad, don't worry. We'll sort it out."

Yriena chuckled. "Second one of those tonight. Purgative's on the shelf in the girls' barracks, H'sonne, we needed it for Nila's Arnlith. There should be a blue-sized dose left in the bottle. Spare muck buckets there too."

"Thanks Yri. Lead the way, lad. Your blue needs to learn that his tummy isn't as big as his mouth says it is."

Yriena smiled as the door closed. "Never changes, Faranth bless them all. Never changes."


	3. Chapter 3

Ista Weyr is the southernmost Weyr of the Northern Continent of Pern. The main part of the weyr occupies the crater of an extinct volcano, and spreading out from it there are sea caves that also house Ista's dragons. During the Interval some riders also chose to occupy forest weyrs looking outward into the rainforest, but with Ista's Interval population many weyrs in the main Bowl were unoccupied and when this weyrling class graduated in a Turn and a half, they would have no shortage of accommodation to choose from. There would no doubt be some squabbles about some particularly choice corner that three weyrlings had already set their hearts on, but in the absence of the Senior Weyrwoman putting her foot down on the subject (and the Senior Weyrwoman couldn't be guaranteed to even remember which weyrling was which, five minutes after being told all their names for the third time) the whole issue would probably be sorted by the timehonoured device of a game of dragonpoker, at which all three would cheat, two would lose, one would smirk, and then it would blow over.

Always assuming, as H'sonne would be the first to admit, that they all learned to count at some time in the next two Turns, otherwise dragonpoker was off the table.

He took a deep breath, let it out, plastered a saintly smile over his face (again) and surveyed the bright young faces of his latest class. Well, flushed young faces anyway. The dragonets, barely a sevenday old, were sleeping peacefully on the warm sand at the edge of the plateau, ten bronze, brown, blue and green mounds who had found breakfast and morning baths to be more tiring than ever. The weyrlings had just finished their run around the Bowl and were a variety of fetching shades of scarlet, crimson and puce. Yriena who had supervised the morning run was as cool and relaxed as if she had just strolled out of the living cavern, and didn't even seem to be out of breath.

"At ease," H'sonne finally said, and the weyrlings sank to the floor with muttered complaints about aching feet, ill fitting shoes, and sadistic Weyrlingmasters. The latter comments being made in a very muted undertone intended to be inaudible and failing. H'sonne chose to ignore it.

"Right, you sorry lot," he said, and tapped the black sand in front of him. "We'll start today with some basic geography. In a Pass, what Holds lie under Ista's protection?"

Some blank faces, a couple of overeager girls waving hands in the air as if trying to catch feathers in the breeze, one bored looking lad gazing into the middle distance, and one older girl with a brown strand in her simple Weyrling's knot looking somewhat amused. Well, at least she looked like she was paying attention which was more than most of the others.

"Rh'jor," H'sonne, finally said, focussing on the sole bronzerider of the group, "The name of one Hold looking to Ista Weyr please?"

Rh'jor brought his attention away from his sleeping dragon and attempted to focus on his Weyrlingmaster. "Sorry, sir, could you repeat the question?"

**Oh For Faranth's Sake**…. H'sonne summoned his reserves of patience, tried to stifle the sarcasm that was fighting its way to the surface, failed. "The name of one hold that during a Pass would be looking to you, Rh'jor, Bronzeriding Saviour of Pern, for its defence against Thread. One hold of the many. Name one."

"Igen Hold, sir."

**Well, what do you know, he actually got it right**. "Correct. Igen Hold looks to us rather than to Igen Weyr. A matter of geography, history and runner trading by Weyrleaders over many Turns. Another one, En'ik?"

The brownrider went for the safe option. "Ista Sea Hold, sir."

"Also correct. And N'bron?"

"Nerat and Keroon Holds, sir."

H'sonne's attention went to the other end of the semicircle. "We'll leave the minor Holds for now, since you three lasses got Searched from two of them." Nila and Kelrya looked disappointed and the third young greenrider, Yamina frowned. "Two Crafthalls. Which two?" His eyes went to the two blue riders. "L'den? Sh'non?" Silence. He changed his gaze to the only male greenrider of the group. "Tr'gir?"

"Tannercraft, sir, at Igen Hold. But like Igen Hold and Keroon Hold, although we protect them from Thread, they tithe to Igen Weyr and not to us."

**Good grief, one of them was actually awake during the candidate lectures. Wonders will never cease. **"Quite correct. Any idea why?"

Silence, and a muttered "Hundred Turn old politics." from the general direction of the brown weyrling N'bron.

"There's a bit more to it than that, but I'll accept that answer. See Yriena later if you want the whole story, she was Searched from Igen Hold and she can give you all the boring details if you care enough. And the other Crafthall?

The last member of the group finally spoke up. "Beastcraft, sir. However much they wish they didn't."

A ripple of laughter ran round the group and H'sonne quelled it with a gesture. "Beastcraft. Quite correct, Briela, though given where both you and Rh'jor came from, it wasn't exactly a hard answer." He tapped the rough sketch he had drawn on the sand. "Today's group exercise is to transfer this map to the board in the barracks classroom, draw in all the minor holds and as many of the cotholds as you can, and work out how many Wings in a pass would be needed to protect them, and how often those Wings would fly Fall before Thread passed out of our territory and became the problem of the next Weyr. If the calculations for this are taxing your little minds, you will find an abacus in the cupboard, for when you run out of fingers and toes. Assuming you manage to work this out in time to actually get some lunch, I will see you all back down at the lake after lunch, by which time your little dears will as usual have woken up and need food again, bathing again, oiling again and hopefully no doses of purgative this time. All clear? Class dismissed."

As the Weyrlings marched (or in some cases limped) towards the barracks, he beckoned Briela back. "Briela, have you actually sorted out what you're shortening your name to?"

"Bree. Akornith chose it. He said it sounded like me. Whatever I sound like, of course."

"Bree." He made a note on a scrap of hide, and tried to ignore the voice inside that was attempting to work out where to place an apostrophe. "Very well, that's all, Bree. Dismissed."

As the girl ran towards the barracks in the wake of her classmates, H'sonne turned to look at the lake. Bree's Akornith was clearly visible on the lake shore, largest of the three browns and darkest in colour, deep peat and umber blending into his shadowed hide. He wasn't far off the size of his only bronze clutchmate, but his conformation was clearly that of a brown, deep in the girth and broad in the chest, lacking the rangy lines that gave the bronzes their speed and stamina in flight. Then he realised that the brown, unlike his clutchmates was not asleep, there was a crack between those heavily lidded eyes and a glitter of faceted colour behind them. "You've been listening to all of that, haven't you? And pretending you haven't?"

The eyes immediately closed again, and a very convincing tiny snore came from the brown's nostrils. H'sonne laughed, and turned towards the barracks, from which the general sounds suggested that an argument was already breaking out. His footsteps were deliberately loud in the hopes that by the time he walked into the classroom there would have been at least one of them with enough common sense to shut the rest up He'd like to bet that it would be Bree. That one was going to take careful watching.


End file.
